


Collide

by glennjaminhow



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Brain Surgery, Car Accidents, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Head Injury, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-01-22 14:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: “I didn’t see it coming, Holden. You could’ve been killed, and I didn’t see it coming…"
Relationships: Holden Ford & Bill Tench
Comments: 108
Kudos: 247





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying something from Bill's POV. I apologize I advance if it's terrible or OOC.

He watches Holden hang up the phone.

And there’s something a little off about the way the kid walks over to him, slightly hunched and inherently slow. He notices how Holden sits on the barstool gingerly. There isn’t a scratch on the kid, at least not where he can see it. Right now, he is tossing the idea of asking Holden if he can feel his head for bumps around in his mind. He takes another drink instead.

“Is that for me?” Holden asks softly, a pure tone only allowed from Holden and no one else. Bill doesn’t think he’s ever met someone else with a softer voice in his life, but the things that come out of Holden’s mouth more than make up for the way he speaks, words wrapped up in a blanket and bundled tightly away from the world. Holden can be a potty-mouth, abrasive and harsh and cold and awkward, but he does it all with a tone that mimics a young boy fresh from puberty. It's a very irritating quality the kid has.

Bill nods and doesn’t look at him. Isn’t sure he can look at him.

“Thanks,” Holden says. “Debbie says hi. As soon as class is over, she’ll come down, though she says she’d rather us get a room so she can pick us up in the morning… Honestly, I’m a little ticked off. I mean, I get that Debbie doesn’t want to do all that driving, but we have a situation here. I’m asking her for help… Okay, she’s got midterms, and that’s on her mind, but… Why am I so upset?”

Bill swirls his drink around in the glass. “Maybe ‘cuz she can’t drop everything when you call.”

“Because she doesn’t want to,” Holden murmurs.

“Here you go,” the bartender says, putting down their steaks and baked potatoes, and Bill asks for another refill. It’s his third in the ten minutes since they arrived here, from a taxi that smelled like week old socks and spoiled milk. Holden glared at him the moment they got in, and Bill admits that he almost laughed, but he didn’t.

And he’s having a hard time calculating his emotions here. Because he can’t look at the kid. He doesn’t want to look at him.

“You want to call Nancy?” Holden asks. But he’s spinning through a drain right now. He inhales and exhales and inhales and exhales again. “Are you okay?... Or we can just eat.”

Bill glances over at Holden through his peripheral vision quickly before returning his attention forward. “I didn’t see it coming, Holden. You could’ve been killed, and I didn’t see it coming… It’s one thing if it’s the job. But some fucking Pinto comes shooting out of nowhere… I think if I called Nancy, if I heard her voice, I’d just lose it…”

And he thinks about Nancy reading a book beside him in bed at night. Only, she’s not really reading. Instead, they’re young again, and Nancy’s head is on his chest. She walks up his chest with her fingers and smiles. She laughs. He hasn’t seen that, hasn’t heard that, in so long it’s distant like the sun from the earth.

“You know we adopted a boy… three years ago. He’s six now. Nancy always wanted a family, and I guess I did too. But we can’t have kids of our own, so… It’s not going well. He’s a beautiful boy. At first, I thought he was just quiet, you know, a quiet baby; nothing wrong with that. He can speak; he just won’t. I feel like we’re failing him somehow.”

He can feel Holden struggling for the right words, but Bill knows there aren’t any. “I’m sure you’re not,” Holden settles on.

Bill shrugs. “Maybe he was like this before. But it’s a real strain. It’s supposed to be this great thing, having a son…”

And it is. Football and talking about girls. Covering for him when he sneaks out of the house, but just one time. Teaching him to ride a bike. But Brian… He doesn’t do anything of those things and shows no interest in learning.

“God, Bill. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Bill sighs shakily. “When that car was spinning out, I just…” he trails off. Holden is mixed between petrified and worried. “You have no idea what I’m trying to say, do you?”

“Not exactly… But I want to.”

“I don’t know either. It’s nothing. It’s fine,” Bill says quickly. He downs his drink and nearly asks for a fourth.

Holden is still as a statue. The kid radiates social anxiety. “Seriously, Bill…”

“Call Debbie. Tell her she can come get us in the morning.”

He watches Holden get up and walk back over to the telephone. He doesn’t listen to their conversation and eats his food instead.

“I called a cab,” Holden says. He reclaims his spot. Bill watches his shoulders hunch, ruining his impeccable posture.

Bill nearly rolls his eyes at himself, but asks anyway. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.”

No elaboration. Not a good sign.

“You’re slouching,” Bill points out. “And you’re not eating.”

“I’m not very hungry,” Holden says. He makes a noticeable effort to sit up straight, but he gives up seconds later. “It’s just a headache.”

There’s this uncomfortable pang in his chest, the kind he only gets when Brian has a fever or Nancy goes out with the girls by herself on the first Tuesday of each month. “I knew that paramedic should’ve checked you out.”

Holden shakes his head, but then he winces. Bill turns to glare at him for his stupid decision. Holden shrinks away. There are deep purple circles beneath his bloodshot eyes. He squints in the dim bar light. “I’m fine, Bill.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Bill says immediately, heart racing and mind not far behind it. He throws fifteen dollars down.

“No!” Holden exclaims, not forcefully enough for others to hear, but enough to make Bill stop in his tracks. He doesn’t like it when Holden winces after. “I’m okay. I swear. I just need a nap.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “A nap? You could have a head injury.”

“I’m prone to migraines. Naps help.”

“So you’re just suddenly getting a migraine after a car accident? An accident where you got knocked around pretty good.”

Holden nods. “The impact probably triggered it,” Holden says. “I’ve been feeling one coming on for a couple days now.”

Bill has half a mind to shove him into the back of the cab and make the driver go straight to the emergency room. But the other half of his mind knows a few things ring true. Holden is prone to migraines, particularly bad ones at that. Bill’s seen them before a few times on the road; Holden usually holes himself up in the backseat under a blanket, presses his face into a pillow, and tries to sleep, only to throw up before they’re halfway through their trip. And Holden’s been suspiciously less irritating the last few days, mainly because he isn’t talking nonstop 24/7.

Maybe the kid has a point.

“Are you sure?” Bill asks.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

Bill shuttles Holden into the back of another horribly odorous cab once it arrives. The kid alternates between rubbing his forehead and wiping at his eyes like a toddler. He’s seen Brian do the eye thing a lot, usually when he’s tired. He hopes Holden is just tired. His stomach swims with uncertainty, but the kid is 29 years old. He knows his body better anyone else.

Their motel is cheap but surprisingly clean, which surprises the shit out of Bill. Holden immediately collapses on the bed on the opposite wall. He lets out a distorted whimper. Bill runs a hand through his hair and sighs. He doesn’t want to deal with this, not after everything that happened today. And it’s not that he doesn’t want to deal with Holden specifically. The kid is annoying as shit, but that doesn't mean Bill wants him to suffer. It’s just that his own mind is spinning, and, fuck, a scotch and some TV sounds great right now.

But Bill can’t relax without knowing. He approaches Holden’s bed and sits on the edge of the mattress.

“Can I feel your head?” he asks. The words numb his tongue. He doesn’t like this touchy-feely garbage. Never has. Never will. But if there’s a goose egg on Holden’s head and he doesn’t catch it, it’ll be bad for both of them.

Holden doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he slurs, “What?”

“I’m gonna feel around for any bumps, okay?”

Holden doesn’t respond.

Bill carefully combs his fingers through Holden’s soft, thick hair and lets out a sigh of relief when he doesn’t feel a Goddamn thing. Maybe there’s some luck left in the day. He manages to get Holden take off his shoes and swallow Tylenol before letting him bury his face into a flat pillow. Holden curls up in the smallest ball Bill thinks he’s ever seen. Holden huddles in on himself every night; it’s just something you learn about your partner after being on the road together so much. But Holden’s never quite this balled away from the world.

He tries to calm his racing heart with scotch, and then another, and then another. Nothing works.

And he thinks about that piece of shit Rissell comparing murdering to sneezing, amongst all the other grotesque shit that came out of his mouth. Not exactly good omens for the day. And then the accident. Remembers not seeing anything until it’s too late, until they’re spinning out, until they stop, and he sees Holden, eyes glazed and mouth parted. Remembers screaming at that fucking asshole. He was going too fast, and Bill didn’t see it coming. He didn’t see it coming, and he’s supposed to see everything.

He knows actions can’t be preemptive. He can’t tell the future or read minds. But he can see the signs. He can look closely and pay attention. And he didn’t stop at that stop sign. He didn’t stop. He doesn’t know why he didn’t. But this was preventable.

Nancy could’ve been in the car. Brian could’ve been in the car. Holden could’ve died in the car.

Bill downs another drink and then another. A warm buzz echoes through his skull, but it’s not enough.

He looks over at Holden, who is fast asleep and snoring. Snoring is good. It means he’s okay, breathing and alive. Usually, Holden’s incessant, soft snoring rubs his nerves raw, but today it’s a good thing.

_“You could’ve been killed, and I didn’t see it coming…”_

Bill shakes his head. Okay. Enough. Holden’s fine. He’s got a migraine, but Bill can handle that. He’ll wake him up, though, in a couple hours to check on him. Make sure that smartass brain of his is still fully intact.

He sets his glass on the bedside table and sinks down into the mattress.

* * *

He doesn’t expect to sleep for this long.

But he looks at the clock on the wall, and it’s almost 9:30 at night. His stomach rumbles. He rubs his eyes and remembers.

Holden is still snoring. He’s still curled in on himself with a pillow wrapped around his head, shielding his eyes from the world around him. He’s still alive and breathing.

Bill gets out of bed and shakes Holden’s shoulder. The kid flinches instantly; he’s a light sleeper.

“Wake up, kid,” Bill says, keeping his voice soft so he doesn’t irritate Holden’s head. “You need a shower and more medicine.”

Holden murmurs something he can’t understand.

Bill gently takes the pillow from Holden’s grasp. Holden shuts his eyes tightly. He’s shivering and shaking. “Please…” he moans.

“Still feeling rough?”

He gives Bill a barely perceptible nod. He looks as if he wants to disappear into the bed.

“A shower and meds will make you feel better,” Bill points out.

There is absolutely no science behind it, but Bill’s had his fair share of hangovers and head injuries from football and the military. Getting warm and clean always helps.

Holden grumbles, but he peels himself off the mattress anyway. Sweat pools on his forehead, and his skin glistens in the light coming from the bedside table lamp. Bill watches as he stumbles, scratching the back of his head and tripping over himself. Bill sighs and grabs Holden’s suitcase. He rummages through until he finds a briefs, a hooded sweatshirt, and flannel pajama pants. He tosses the pile to Holden. Holden doesn’t catch them, and they fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. Bill picks them up and places them in Holden’s hands instead.

Maybe a shower isn’t such a good idea.

“Never mind, kid. Lay back down. We can do this later.”

“No,” Holden says softly. “It’s okay. I’m just tired. A shower does sound nice.”

It’s a clear and coherent statement. Bill gives him the all clear to enter the bathroom.

“Call out if you need anything,” he finds himself saying, even though he really doesn’t want to see anything ‘extra’ of Holden’s.

“That won’t be necessary,” Holden says, “but thank you.”

Thank Christ.

Bill hears the water turn on and relaxes on the hard bed. He picks up the remote and flips through channels until he settles on a highlight reel from the latest game.

His eyes rip away from the TV the second he hears a loud thud coming from the bathroom.

Bill jumps and makes a beeline to the bathroom.

Shit. Fuck. Goddammit. He shouldn't have pushed him. Shouldn't have let him go alone.

He should’ve seen that coming. He should’ve seen it.

He opens the door, and that's how he finds Holden, half-conscious on the bathtub floor with blood dripping from his ear.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very unsure of this chapter. Hopefully it's okay.

When he was in Vietnam, he met a kid named Sam Turner.

Sam was eighteen and baby-faced. Blond hair and dimples. A wife named Laura and a little guy they named Thomas on the way.

He was in their platoon. Strong. Sensible. Practical. Never the type to speak out of turn or obey orders. He was a good kid. Bill noticed him immediately. He took Sam under his wing and showed him the ropes. There was an age gap between the two of them, sure, but Bill found himself not caring all that much. Sam was more thoughtful, mature, more intelligent, than nine out of ten soldiers they fought side by side with during the war. Bill couldn’t quite place the reason why, but he was drawn to Sam and his wits, his polite attitude, his sturdiness even in times of danger.

It was July 25, 1969. In Laos for one year then. Hot and humid. Bill’s hair stuck to his ball cap. He longed for Nancy’s touch, her whisper against his neck, her laughter rumble beneath his palm. He stored her letters, every single one of them, in his shaving kit. Not that he ever shaved. There was no reason to out here. He smoked cigarette after cigarette and groaned as he thought about Nancy coming in between his fingertips, her body slotted perfectly against his.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Sam said as he entered a makeshift tent on right by the water. It was used for when men needed privacy.

Bill grumbled, “Fuck you.”

“Nancy?” Sam asked, a poorly rolled joint dangling from his lips.

“Oh yeah,” Bill said. “I can’t fucking stop thinking about her.”

Sam nodded. “’s that way with me and Laura too, you know? I just want to be with her.”

“Even though she’s pregnant as shit?”

“Yeah, even though she’s pregnant as shit,” Sam said. “Christ, Bill. You’re quite eloquent when you want to be.”

“I try.”

The words escaped his lips, and Sam was giving him a shit-eating grin, but, in war, nothing good lasted long. Calm moments where he could jack off in peace or smoke – cigarettes, cannibas, cigars – without a care in the world were hard to come by.

Two loud, explosive bangs followed by shrieks and screams echoed through Bill’s ears. He immediately put on his helmet and grabbed his weapon.

Outside the tent, the world erupted into chaos. Smoke and debris clouded his vision. He saw a small child with its leg missing. Heard a woman wailing, “My baby! My baby!” in Lao. Smelled rotting flesh. Bumped against Sam’s elbow on their frenzied dash to the center of the source. He had to help those people. He was supposed to protect those people.

Sam shouted, “This way!”

He ran up ahead.

Bill was right behind him.

Right behind him.

When Sam stepped on something – a landmine, no doubt – a split second later, Bill felt the blast rattle his core to the bone.

It was quiet.

It was quiet.

It was quiet on a battlefield.

Bill scrambled over to Sam.

What was left of Sam.

His left leg was missing, shredded bits of flesh dangling from where his limb used to be. His right foot was in fragments, the bone twisted and mangled. And his face. His face. His face was ghost white. He had blood dripping from his ear. Blood dripping from his ear…

He opens the door, and that’s how he finds Holden, half-conscious on the bathtub floor with blood dripping from his ear.

It’s 1978. Winter.

This isn’t a battlefield in Laos, but a hotel in Richmond, Virginia.

And his partner, young and baby-faced like Sam, is on the bathtub floor with blood dripping from his ear.

The car accident.

“Shit,” Bill murmurs, shaking his head and rallying his thoughts together. “Shit shit shit.”

He quickly turns the water off and covers Holden’s privates with a towel before kneeling down on shaking, sore knees. Holden’s eyes go from blank and glazed to aware and alert within seconds.

“What happened?” he asks softly.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Bill says. “Your ear is bleeding.”

Holden goes to touch under his right ear and stares at the blood coating his fingertips. “Huh.”

“You need a hospital now. I’m calling an ambulance.”

Holden shakes his head vigorously. “No! No. I’m fine, Bill. I have a migraine, remember?”

“And you’re bleeding from your ear, remember?” Bill retorts. “This is not open for negotiation.”

“Bill,” Holden pouts. His bottom lip puffs out, and Bill wonders how often he got away with whining when he was a kid. Probably a lot and often.

No matter what the answer is, this conversation is pointless.

“Let’s get you up.”

Holden’s skin is bare and wet beneath his touch. He feels violated himself just for putting his hands on another man, but Holden seems… off. A little confused, very whiny. Confusion and Holden aren’t exactly terms that mix well together; the kid is always on top of everything no matter what. Bill wonders if he named a sequence killer right now if Holden would remember or know who it is. He almost tests his theory, but he figures that would be cruel.

Bill settles Holden on the closed toilet seat. The kid still has blood on his fingers.

“Hey, Bill,” Holden whispers. He doesn’t make eye contact.

“Yes, Holden?”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” he says. His words are slightly slurred. “I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“Too bad. I’m not talking about this anymore. You’re going, and that’s final.”

And it hits him.

He’s never said anything remotely like that to Brian before.

The kid – his son – is just so quiet. He can do no wrong because he doesn’t do anything. The most Brian does is build with his Legos or Lincoln Logs. A six year old boy should be out riding his bike with the neighborhood kids – not too much older than him though, seven or eight or maybe even nine. A six year old boy should be giggling about his day at school. A six year old boy should beg for ice cream before dinner, to play catch with his old man, to stay up late on a school night. Brian just… doesn’t do that. The only time they’ve ever had to ‘scold’ him was when he threw a fit in a grocery store. Brian hasn’t cried since that day almost a year ago.

He can’t keep thinking about this.

Bill’s in the middle of unfolding Holden’s hooded sweatshirt so he can put it on easier when Holden covers his mouth with his hand. The kid shakes and sways, eyes pinched closed. There’s a gurgle and then a splatter. Right on Bill’s socked feet.

Holden has leftovers dribbling through his fingers and onto his chest.

Bill takes in a deep breath, removes his soiled socks, tosses them in the trashcan, and begins to clean Holden off.

“I’m sorry,” Holden chokes out. “I-I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. It’s not your fault.”

Holden slides off the toilet lid and tries to curl himself into a ball on the floor.

“You can’t lay down in here, Holden,” Bill says. His nerves feel raw, jumbled, scattered.

“My head hurts,” Holden slurs together.

“I bet it does. What else is bothering you?”

Holden folds his knees toward his chest, his back resting against the bathtub. Bill manages to keep his privates covered. He hides his face in his hands, fingers tugging at wet hair. “Hip hurts. Nauseous.”

Bill doesn’t know how it took him this long to notice, but there are large blue and purple bruises splotched on the right side of Holden’s body. There’s a particularly nasty one on his hip and elbow. Bill’s stomach swims. All of this has been happening right under his nose. He shouldn’t have made Holden shower. He should’ve let that paramedic check Holden out.

_“I didn’t see it coming, Holden. You could’ve been killed, and I didn’t see it coming…”_

Bill takes in a few deep gulps of air. He can’t do this now. He can’t afford to do this now. The kid needs him to be strong.

There’s no sense in drowning in guilt just yet.

A plan. He needs a plan.

“Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do, okay? I’m gonna call an ambulance, and then I’m gonna get you dressed.”

Holden shakes his head. He winces and then flinches at the pain. “Don’t need an ambulance.”

“I’m not taking any chances with you right now. Sit tight.”

Bill shoves his bare feet into his shoes. He doesn’t bother putting on his suit jacket or coat.

The payphone outside their room is covered in freshly fallen snow.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Me and a friend were involved in a car accident several hours ago. I thought he just had a migraine, but now he’s bleeding from his ear and throwing up.”

“Is he conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Is he dizzy?”

“Yes. He’s slurring his words too.”

“Any other injuries?”

Bill nods, even though the operator can’t see it. “He has some bruising on his side. I just noticed it.”

“Address?”

“1803 Cherry Street. Room 4.”

“The Westbrook Motel?”

“That’s the one.”

“The ambulance will be there shortly. Keep your friend awake and talking.”

Bill hangs up without another word and darts back inside.

Holden is still sitting against the bathtub, eyes red and dull. He’s half-heartedly struggling with his hooded sweatshirt. Bill kneels beside him.

“Let’s not bother with this, okay? The ambulance is on its way,” Bill informs. “Let’s just get these pants on, kid.”

Holden nods listlessly and tries to push himself off the ground, grimacing loudly when he tries. Bill hoists him to his feet instead, and Holden somehow manages to pull on briefs and flannel pajama pants without breaking his grip on Bill’s arm.

As they make their way out to the motel room, Bill watches the color drain from Holden’s face. The kid collapses on his hands and knees. A sea of vomit expels itself from his stomach. Holden whimpers and clutches onto his middle. Bill bites his bottom lip. This isn’t good. This really isn’t good. He rubs Holden’s back because it’s all he can do.

He should’ve done more. He should’ve forced the kid to go to the hospital. The doctors could’ve caught whatever this is early. Even if Holden had to spend the night – or, fuck, the week – in Richmond, Virginia, it would be better than watching him suffer like this. He shouldn’t have let him fall asleep for so long. He shouldn’t have let him go into the bathroom by himself. Holden isn’t capable of making these decisions right now, not with what’s happening inside his head; Bill is supposed to do it for him. He’s supposed to make things better, not worse.

“You good?” Bill asks.

The only answer Bill gets is Holden pressing his face against his shoulder, sagging on him like a wet towel. Bill wraps his arm around Holden’s shoulder and waits. Waits to hear sirens. Waits for the hustle and bustle of the paramedics’ arrival. Waits for Holden to get loaded onto a stretcher and be transported to the nearest hospital.

And he waits.

“Stay awake, kid,” Bill whispers. “Just stay with me.”

Minutes – shit, maybe even hours for all he knows – later, he sees red and blue swirling lights. Two gentlemen in uniforms burst through the door. Holden leans against Bill as the paramedics poke and prod him, checking his pupils and gauging his level of consciousness. They help Holden up. They help Holden relax on a stretcher. They tell Holden that everything will be alright, but will it?

“Bill…” Holden murmurs. His eyes aren’t open.

He takes Holden’s hand in his own and rubs over the knuckles with his thumb. “It’s okay, kid.”

“D-Don’t go,” Holden whimpers. Tears stream down pale, nearly translucent cheeks. The purple smudges under his eyes stand out vividly against washed out skin.

Holden’s face is ghost white, just like Sam’s.

Bill takes a deep breath. “I’m not going anywhere.”


	3. Chapter Three

After he’s given something for the pain and nausea in the ambulance, Holden lulls into a stupor.

He doesn’t quite fall asleep, mainly because he’s not supposed to with his head injury. Holden lazily looks at Bill with the blankets pulled up to his chin. He smiles vaguely, and Bill fights the urge to glance away. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling so… compelled to watch over the kid. He’s a grown ass man. He's 29 years old, and Bill is not his father. Holden should be able to take care of himself, but he can’t right now, not with his head the way it is, and it’s Bill’s job as his partner to keep him safe.

Which, clearly, he failed at.

Bill internally shakes his head. No. No more of that self-pity bullshit.

Holden needs him.

It’s just that the kid looks vulnerable. Bill isn’t that in touch with his feelings, but it makes him really uncomfortable to even glance in Holden’s direction. Holden still has a loose grip on Bill’s hand, and, every now and then, Bill rubs his thumb over boney knuckles. He doesn’t know why. But the acute vulnerability plus Holden’s flushed cheeks and messy bedhead makes Holden look all of twelve years old, reaching out for comfort. But Bill can’t be that comfort. He’s no good at it. He’s proven that over and over again with Brian.

Fuck.

He needs to stop.

He needs to get out of here.

He needs to dump Holden at the hospital and go home to his family – his real family.

But he’d never do that to the kid.

“’m sorry,” Holden whispers again, words marred with hurt and exhaustion.

Bill shakes his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Head hurts,” Holden says.

And shit.

He isn’t aware he is this thankful for Holden to be able to speak and have a coherent conversation.

It’s a weight he isn’t sure existed off his shoulders.

“I know, kid.”

“The doctor will give you something else for the pain once you get looked at,” the paramedic informs.

Bill’s eyebrows furrow. “You can’t give him anything?”

“Unfortunately not. We’ve already given him a low dose of morphine. It’s standard procedure for the doctor to control pain management. We’re just a temporary fix before the doctor sees him.”

“Like a Band-Aid,” Holden says, chuckling and blinking heavily.

The paramedic nods and smiles. “Just like a Band-Aid.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bill mumbles. He can’t help but roll his eyes.

Bill’s only known Holden for around six months. He shouldn’t be amused by him in the slightest. But it’s a little unusual to see Holden, who is normally so composed and uptight, giggling lazily like a pre-teen girl about to go shopping. This is Holden, who spends twenty minutes tucking and untucking his shirt to make sure there are absolutely no creases or wrinkles in the fabric. This is Holden, who uses his fingers to get the perfect FBI hairdo or whatever the hell he's doing instead of using a comb like a typical human. This is Holden, who insists on Bill have a glass of water with every three beers. This is Holden, who he’s never actually seen laugh.

Huh. He’s never heard the kid laugh until now.

Bill wonders what Brian’s laugh sounds like. If it’s high-pitched and squeaky or if it’s low and curious like his own. If it's impossibly cute and sweet. He pictures Brian having a more under control laugh, just because of how he behaves at home. He’s never made Brian excited enough to earn a laugh from him, not even a smile really, and here Holden is laughing through his head injury after being dosed with morphine, and it’s the most beautifully fucked up sound Bill’s ever heard.

When they get to the hospital, Holden is whisked away, and Bill is left filling out the paperwork.

He knows the kid’s name, obviously. But he’s never been to Holden’s apartment, so he doesn’t know his address. He knows the kid’s birthday is in March, but only because he offhandedly mentioned it one day in passing; he can’t remember what their conversation had been about. He doesn’t know who his emergency contact is, so he puts his own name on that line.

But Holden doesn’t really talk to Bill about himself. He's private when it comes to his person life. Holden listens to Bill’s problems and at least knows a little about him, he’s sure, but Bill doesn’t know much about Holden at all. He knows the kid likes salads and that he eats like a fidgety rabbit. He knows the kid refuses to sleep if there’s a thunderstorm outside; he waits it out or just doesn’t drift off at all. He knows the kid likes to talk but is so intensely awkward that Bill often wonders who raised him.

He doesn’t know Holden’s parents’ names. If he has parents. If they’re dead or alive.

And he doesn’t know much about Brian’s parents, and this whole thing is making him think too fucking much.

He should be at the motel drinking scotch and listening to the kid snore on the bed across from his.

Bill rubs his forehead and goes back to the forms.

Does the patient have diabetes?

No. That would’ve been something he would’ve seen firsthand.

Does the patient have asthma?

Maybe? Probably not treated, though. Holden does get really short of breath if he jogs inside to grab something he forgot or when he runs from the gas station to the car when it’s raining. But it’s probably nothing. It’s nothing.

Does the patient have any other known medical issues, allergies, etc.?

Not that he knows of.

And Bill wonders… If Brian ever had to go to the emergency room, would he know the answers to these questions?

He doesn’t let himself think about that. He fills out the forms as best as he can, leaving several lines blank, and he wanders over to a payphone.

After putting some spare change in, he dials home and waits for Nancy to pick up.

“Bill?” he hears. Her voice is tinny on the other end. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, but then he shakes his head. “No. I’m fine. But turns out Holden’s pretty beat up from the accident. I had to call an ambulance.”

“Oh God. Is he okay?”

Bill shrugs. “I dunno, Nance. He was talking, but he was slurring his words a lot, and he kept throwing up. The kid actually convinced me he had a migraine earlier, and I let him sleep for hours. Hours, Nance. Do you know what kind of damage that could’ve caused?”

“You didn’t know, Bill. You can’t blame yourself for this. Besides, Holden canceled that one time on dinner with us because he had a migraine. He gets them sometimes. You know that. It’s not your fault that car hit you two.”

He scrubs a hand down his stubby cheek. “It feels like it is.”

“Well, it isn’t. I can promise you that,” Nancy tells him. “Do you need me to come be with you? I can bring you some spare clothes. Some for Holden too if you want.”

“No. That’s okay. How’s Bri?” Bill asks. He can’t worry about the kid too much. He’s in good hands.

“He’s fine. A little moody today.”

_How can you tell?_

“Can I talk to him?”

“He’s asleep,” Nancy says. “It’s after midnight.”

Bill frowns. He puts his hand on the wall and braces himself. “Shit. Sorry. I guess I didn’t realize what time it was. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

Nancy yawns into the receiver. “It’s fine, Bill. Let me know how Holden is, okay?”

“I’ll let you know,” Bill says. “I love you, Na –”

But the line is already dead before he can finish his sentence.

Bill hangs his head and sits down in the nearest chair.

* * *

“Agent Tench?”

Bill’s eyes open, and he snaps to attention. He coughs and bites back a yawn. “Yes, sir?”

In front of him is a man in a white coat not much older than himself. He's holding a clipboard. Bill can’t quite read his face.

“I’m here to give you an update about Agent Ford’s condition.”

_No shit._

“Okay,” Bill says.

“The result of the impact caused a brain bleed. It’s what we call an acute subdural hematoma. A clot develops in between the surface of the brain and the brain’s outer coating, or dura mater, due to the stretching and tearing of veins on the brain’s surface. The veins can rupture when a head injury occurs. It explains all of his symptoms: the nausea and vomiting, the slurred words, the lethargy. It especially accounts for the migraine you thought Agent Ford was suffering from.”

He thought the diagnosis would make him feel better, but all he hears is medical jargon, and he keeps seeing the kid on a stretcher. He keeps feeling a kid shaking in his arms and nestled against him, like Bill is the only one in the universe who can protect him.

“So what do we do about that?”

“We’ll have to operate,” the doctor says, and Bill immediately feels intense vertigo wash over him, even though he’s sitting down. “Quickly, I might add. The more blood that collects in Agent Ford’s brain, the worse off he’ll be. I’ll drill in what we call Burr Holes. They'll help relieve the pressure building in his skull.”

Bill nods a few too many times. “And if you don’t operate?”

“The blood will compress the brain. That will cause much more serious symptoms or death.”

“I think I need to find a way to contact his parents first,” Bill says. His mouth is so dry.

The doctor shakes his head. “We don’t have time for that. The bleed will only get worse the longer we wait.”

“But his parents deserve to know.”

“Okay,” the doctor says. “Agent Ford is asleep, but not unconscious. I’ll give you five minutes.”

Bill immediately heads down the hall to Holden’s room.

He hates what he sees.

The kid’s face is stark white. White as a sheet. White as a ghost. The purple bags underneath his eyes are much worse now, almost as if they’re permanent. He’s got an IV in his left hand and an oxygen canula in his nose. He spies the bruising on Holden’s elbow and rubs the back of his neck. One accident. One accident did this to his partner.

And drilling into this kid’s brain?

He doesn’t know how Holden will take to it.

“Kid?” he whispers, gently taking Holden’s right hand in his own. He squeezes firmly and waits a few seconds. “Kid?”

Holden’s eyes creak open, but just barely. “Hmm?”

“Did the doctor explain the surgery to you?”

“Mhmm…” is the only response he gets.

“And did you understand it?”

“Cold,” Holden manages.

Bill’s eyes dart around the room until he sees a stack of blue blankets near the nurse’s station outside Holden’s room. He grabs two without thinking about it. Carefully, he drapes them over Holden and pulls them up to his chin. The kid is shuddering beneath his quick touch. Bill bites his lower lip and grabs Holden’s hand again.

“Did you understand it?” he presses again. “The procedure?”

Holden nods.

“Do you need me to call anyone? Your parents? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

It’s pathetic he doesn’t know the answer to this.

_Some partner you are._

“Only child,” Holden whispers. “My mom is dead. Don’t talk to Father.”

“Okay,” Bill says. Given the nature of this situation, he won’t ask anything else. Holden definitely isn’t equipped to handle the stream of questions he has right now. “What about Debbie?”

The kid nods. “You can call her. But tell her not to worry.”

“You’re in the hospital and about to have brain surgery, kid. I think she has the right to worry.”

“Bill,” he says seriously, all done at the volume of a hushed whisper. Even like this, the kid’s voice is impossibly soft.

And he wonders what Brian’s little voice sounds like. He’s heard it before, obviously, but sometimes he goes weeks without Brian saying a word when he’s home.

“I’ll call her,” Bill says.

“Thanks,” Holden whispers. His eyes droop closed. “Be here when I wake up?”

Bill nods. “Where else would I be?”

A team of medical staff barges into Holden’s room with all the subtlety of a freight train bounding down the tracks. A sea of blue and medical equipment crowds around him. Bill squeezes Holden’s hand one last time before being shuttled back out into the waiting area. He paces around the room, wearing a hole into the floor as the nurses stare, and tries to regain his composure. He’s solid. He’s steady. He doesn’t panic, and he certainly doesn’t show this kind of weakness.

He gets his heart rate to return to normal. He doesn’t know how long the surgery will take. He doesn’t want to think about it, not really at least.

Bill gives the rest of his spare change to the payphone and dials Debbie’s number.


	4. Chapter Four

In the hour it takes Debbie to arrive to the hospital, Bill waits.

He sits in a red plastic chair down the hall from Holden’s private room, chin in his hand and feet flat on the floor. His knees shake, and it takes everything to not tap his heel on the ground or fidget with a loose thread he found on his coat. The nurses watch him, steadily and eerily, as he stares through long corridors, searching for a kid with brown hair and a quiet voice. He wonders how long this procedure is supposed to take and kicks himself for not asking. He should know everything about this, for Debbie and for the kid.

It’s too late now.

He just hopes it isn’t too late for Holden. He has a head injury, after all.

If Bill made him get checked out by a paramedic before leaving the sight of the accident, Holden could be resting peacefully, in a hospital bed undoubtedly, without needing emergency surgery. If Bill hadn’t let him take a several hour nap, Holden could be awake and oriented. If Bill ignored his reassurance that it was just a migraine, Holden would be okay now. He’s not saying completely okay, no, because the damage done has to be somewhat serious already before ignoring it for many hours. But at least he might not have needed surgery.

Bill reminds himself that each time Holden spoke, it wasn’t jumbled. He was coherent and clear on what he means, even if his words were marred by a quickly growing slur. These are good signs. These are signs that significant damage hadn’t been done. Holden will still be an annoying little shit when he wakes up, and, honestly, Bill’s never wanted the kid to talk his ear off more than he does right now. The kid talks a lot. He hopes it’ll be the same when he regains consciousness. 

He is in the middle of grabbing his fourth cup of coffee from a table beside the nurse’s station when Debbie whisks in.

“Bill? What the hell happened?”

Her brown hair is long beneath her winter hat. She blows a strand from her face and folds her hands in front of her lap, like a schoolgirl ready for a history test. She looks as disheveled and distraught as Bill feels, but she wears it better than him.

“It was the accident,” Bill explains. “He really got his marbles scrambled. The doctor said the impact caused a brain bleed.”

Debbie lets out a sigh. “I should’ve come to pick you guys up. I would’ve seen there was something was wrong.”

Bill’s eyebrows furrow. “I didn’t know this was going to happen.”

“Exactly,” she says. “I know Holden. I would’ve been able to tell.”

“I couldn’t even tell, and I basically live with the kid throughout the week,” Bill states. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“You forgot about his allergy to strawberries,” Debbie points out.

Bill rolls his eyes. “I didn’t _know_ about his allergy. Kid doesn’t tell me anything til it’s way too fucking late.”

And, trust him, he already feels guilty enough about giving the kid a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich while Bill focused on changing their flat tire. It had been a mild reaction; Holden broke out in hives, and he had a bit of trouble breathing, but he felt a bit better after sticking a finger down his throat to gag up the sandwich. Then he made Bill buy him a giant Styrofoam cup of ice water at the gas station after Bill replaced the tire. By the time the kid finished the water, he was mostly asleep in the passenger seat, head lulled on the seatbelt and buried under a thick blanket, leftover hives taking hostage of his neck and cheek.

Since then, Nancy only uses grape jelly when she makes sandwiches for the road, and Bill triple checks them, looking for purple smears instead of red.

“You said he had a migraine,” Debbie says. “His pain was attributed to the accident. Not the other way around.”

Bill lets out a frustrated sigh and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re making it sound like I did this on purpose.”

“Well, you sure didn’t do anything to try and stop it.”

Debbie sits in the furthest corner of the room, far away from Bill. Bill walks over to his resident red plastic chair and sips his coffee. It's bitter against his tongue.

He understands Debbie’s points. It makes even more sense because she had an hour drive here just to stew in her anger, her hurt, her worry. Bill doesn’t mind her taking it out on him because it’s better than her emotions being taken out on Holden once he wakes up. Plus, she made valid arguments. He knows he did the wrong thing. He should’ve taken Holden to the hospital immediately after he turned down a paramedic giving him a quick glance.

Bill closes his eyes and shrinks back, posture falling to shit and exhaustion snagging hold of his muscles.

_How the fuck long does brain surgery take?_

And he lets his mind wander. It’s almost two in the morning. Holden isn’t here, even though the kid is usually right by his side, invading his personal space in every way possible and chattering endlessly about profiles, murderers, theories, the newest book he’s reading, how disgusting breakfast was on a certain morning. It’s just that Holden kind of seeped into his life, and now he’s like a bleach stain; he’ll never go away. Bill isn’t sure he wants him to, either.

But Holden might not forgive him for this. For not stopping at a stop sign. For the accident. For letting him fall asleep and wake up ten times worse. For the ambulance ride. For being poked and prodded with needles. For the surgery. Especially for the surgery.

“I’m sorry,” he hears. He watches Debbie settle down beside him. “That was really rude of me. I know you would never do anything to hurt Holden. This is just…”

“A lot,” Bill finishes for her. “I know.”

“Did he seem okay before the surgery? I mean, obviously I know he isn’t okay, not in a real sense at least, but was he in pain?”

Bill shakes his head. “They drugged him up a lot. He was slurring his words, but that was about it. He wanted me to tell you not to worry.”

Debbie blushes. “Of course he did."

“Hey, has Holden ever mentioned anything about his parents? I was going to call them about what’s going on, but the kid says his mom’s dead and that he doesn’t talk to his father. Not that I think he’s lying. But Holden can be kind of –”

“Evasive?”

Bill nods.

“He hasn’t told me much either. Just that his mom died last year and that his father’s in a nursing home after having a stroke in '71.”

“And no siblings?”

“None. He’s told me before that it was better off that way.”

“Huh. That’s bleak,” Bill says. “His mom died last year?"

Debbie nods. “In December. Liver cancer. Holden said she only got diagnosed six months earlier.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Bill scrubs a hand down his stubbly cheek. Holden’s mother died a thirteen months ago. Bill’s known Holden since early September. How has the kid not mentioned it? It’s his mother. He doesn’t know what Holden’s relationship with her was like, but Bill remembers crying – for one of the first and only times in his life – when his mother passed in her sleep.

“He isn’t very talkative,” Debbie points out.

Bill’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding, right? I can never get the kid to shut up.”

“Yeah, he talks, but it’s never about anything important or substantial. Nothing personal. He’s all work and no play.”

He is about to respond when he spies Holden’s doctor making his way down the hall toward them. Bill stands up, wiping his hands on his slacks and straightening himself. The doctor takes off his green scrub cap and tosses it in one of the many bins by the nurse’s station.

“Agent Tench,” the doctor says, shaking Bill’s hand. He raises his eyebrows once he sees Debbie. “I’m sorry. We haven’t met. And you are?”

“Debbie. I’m Holden’s girlfriend,” she introduces, shaking the doctor’s hand too.

The doctor nods. “The surgery went perfectly. No complications. We had to drill two holes in his skull, both above his right ear, to relieve the pressure. There are drains in the incision sights, but those will come out in the next 24 hours.”

“Is anything of this going to affect him, you know, cognitively?” Debbie asks.

Wow. She beat him to the punch.

“We aren’t aware of the damage the bleed caused just yet. Holden’s speech was very slurred before and may remain that way once he wakes up. Or he could talk just fine. At this point, it’s a wait and see game.”

“He’s an FBI agent,” Debbie points out. The worry in her voice is palpable. “It’s all he’s ever wanted to be.”

The doctor gives her a sad smile. “Holden will be awake soon. We can judge his level of competency then.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Bill says. He extends his hand to the gentleman.

“You’re very welcome,” he says. “A nurse will come get you shortly so you can visit him.”

Bill and Debbie nod. The doctor walks away.

And Bill lets out a sigh he doesn’t realize he’s holding in. A brick is lifted from his chest, and he can breathe again. Holden’s okay. His surgery went well. A heavy, dense fog of denial rolls in, and he can feel it. Holden’s fine. He’ll recover from the surgery and go back to work like this never happened. He’s fine. Completely fine.

Debbie runs a hand through her hair. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Bill chokes on his own saliva. His heart beats in his chest like a maniacal marching band. He breathes in and out, in and out, in and out, until the world filters back into focus. He can’t believe this is happening either. He should’ve stopped at the stop sign. This would’ve never happened if he had abided by one of the most basic traffic rules of all time.

He wants to call Nancy and tell her about this, about Holden’s surgery and how a doctor will have to check to make sure all his marbles are still inside that thick skull of his. But it’s late, or early depending on how he looks at it. She said Brian’s been moody. She doesn’t need to add this to her plate. It’s bad enough that this happened to Holden; Bill can’t imagine anything like this happening to his son, his baby boy.

Because that’s what Brian is. His baby boy. They’ve only had him for three years, but they’ve loved him since he was born. Nancy always says that. Brian knows he and Nancy aren’t his real parents; he’s old enough to figure it out on his own. On the few occasions Brian has spoken to Bill, he usually asks why his real Mommy and Daddy didn’t want him anymore. Try explaining that to a little boy, fresh faced and ready to make an attempt to take on the world.

A nurse approaches and says they can see Holden, but only one at a time. Bill lets Debbie go first.

Bill waits. In his red plastic chair. Knives have taken residency in his back, and his own head is throbbing in the wake of this disaster.

Tears prick the corners of his eyes. He almost lets out a dry chuckle because of how tired and frustrated and fucking scared he is. What if this were Brian? What if Bill fucked up in the most spectacular way possible and hurt his own son?

Holden isn’t Brian. Holden isn’t Brian. He has to remind himself that.

And he doesn’t know why he feels this compulsion to run down to Holden’s room just to see if the kid is breathing. The doctor would’ve told him if something was wrong; apparently, right now, he’s perfectly fine. He just has two drains sticking out of his skull, the skull that had holes drilled into it. That’s it. But there aren’t any respiratory problems or more brain bleeds or anything else that can make this that much worse.

Debbie returns nearly thirty minutes later, dried tear tracks on her flushed cheeks.

“He’s awake,” Debbie whispers to him, and Bill immediately tenses.

A nurse escorts him to Holden’s room. She makes him wash his hands from fingers to elbows. He doesn’t mind. He just wants to see the kid.

Holden’s eyes are closed. There’s still an oxygen canula in his nose, and his face spells pure weariness.

But what strikes Bill instantly, like a stab in the gut, are the narrow drains leading from a Holden’s skull to a bag hanging on the IV pole. Blood runs from the tubes and pours into the bag. Bill gulps and purses his lips before settling down in another chair, this one leather and tan. The kid looks sick. Barely alive. Small bruises blot Holden’s cheek and jaw, undoubtedly from the accident. The contusion on his elbow is large and menacing.

Bill takes Holden’s hand. Rubs his thumb over smooth skin and boney knuckles.

Holden’s eyes slowly flutter open. The kid smiles.

Bill lets out a shaky breath. “Hey, kid,” he whispers. “You doing alright? Are you in any pain?”

“Can’t feel it,” Holden manages.

Even though Holden only said three words, a bundle of nerves forms in Bill’s gut. His speech. His once absolutely soft, articulate speech pattern is now a ghost of its former self. Holden’s words run into each other. Bill wants to put his head in his hands and give up on this day. This day has been shit from start to finish, and now Holden’s got fucking tubes coming from his brain, and this isn’t real. This is too fucked up to be real.

“That bad, huh?” Holden says. Bill winces when he talks.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Holden rolls his eyes, and Bill finds a piece of himself in the action. “I know how I sound,” Holden reveals. “And how I look. Debbie told me.”

“It’s not… terrible,” Bill says with a small smile.

“Ha ha. I’m just upset they shaved my head.”

Bill squeezes Holden’s hand a little tighter. “Just a bit in one spot. You won’t even notice in a couple weeks.”

“I have a hairstyle, Bill. A certain hairstyle.”

“Jesus Christ, kid. I missed you.”

It’s a sudden, volcanic admission, and Bill almost wishes he could take it back.

“You missed me?” Holden slurs, a big smile plastered on his face. “Really?”

Bill nods. “Really.”

“Thank you for staying,” Holden says. His words are becoming harder to understand, less enunciated as his eyes droop closed.

Bill watches Holden drift off and keeps holding his hand until a nurse kicks him out.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry about the long gap in between updates. I ran out of all fuel for this story when I started writing my musical. Now that it's finished, though, I think I'll be able to complete this one. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

The doctor removes the drains from Holden’s head the next morning.

Bill lets out a sigh of relief. The blood sliding through the tubes made his stomach do flip flops if he stared at it, and, honestly, it was hard not to stare at. Luckily, Holden has been floating in and out of consciousness the entire time, a combination of exhaustion and pain medication from the surgery, so he doesn't see Bill stare. He has two holes in his skull. Two. Bill’s heart clenches into a crumpled wad in his chest. Holden’s eyes are open, but just barely. He smiles at Bill and blinks heavily.

He did this to his partner. He did it.

And now Holden is acting like nothing even happened.

He’s upbeat and cheery each time he awakens, disoriented at first but very aware moments later. Once the drains were removed, the doctor made Holden walk, which he did perfectly, save for a couple stumbles. Holden smiled as a nurse helped him stroll the hallways with a gait belt and walker. Debbie held onto his elbow as he made his rounds. Holden ate four cups of Jell-O in one sitting, two blues, a red, and a green, which made the doctor happy after a lifesaving surgery like this one.

It’d be a joy to see under any other circumstance. Bill isn’t used to watching Holden smile this much. Holden is shy kid, perfectly content with living in his own head, unless he has something to say about sequence killers; then forget about it. With the new information about Holden’s parents, Bill figures the kid is lonely. He’s awkward and doesn’t understand how to let loose or have fun, but, more than anything, Bill can’t see past how numbing it is to be alone all the time.

Debbie is around, but she and Holden don't spend every waking moment together. Neither do he and Nancy, but there’s a disconnect there that’s palpable when they’re in the same room. He wonders how Holden spent his free time before he got a girlfriend or started working with him in the BSU. Reading, for one. The kid talks about books more than anyone he’s ever known. But he can see Holden listening to records or knitting socks or ironing all his clothes for fun.

“What’re you thinking about?” Holden slurs.

Bill frowns. Each time the kid talks, it’s a punch in the gut.

“It’s not important,” Bill says.

“You feel guilty about this, don’t you?”

Jesus Christ. This boy has a severe head injury, and he’s still sharp as a tack.

He immediately kicks himself. He shouldn’t want Holden to be anything other than sharp as a tack. That’s who the kid is. That’s who he always will be. He is easily the most intelligent person Bill knows.

But it’s different now. Everything is so agonizingly different, and Bill worries a lot about it. Will Holden be able to work? Fuck, will Holden even be able to talk properly, to where his words aren’t dragging over one another? Will Holden be able to drive or put away his own laundry? Will Holden have reduced fine motor skills or debilitating migraines? Will Holden say ‘fuck it’ when things get tough and give up? Will Holden give up on himself?

No. He can’t think that way. The kid needs him.

And that means being honest with him.

Holden is still Holden, after all.

“I wasn’t paying attention, Holden,” Bill says softly. “You could’ve been killed, and I didn’t see it coming.”

Holden breaks eye contact. “You don’t have to be sorry, Bill. It was an accident.”

“A bad accident, kiddo. Your head… You may not be able t–”

“To what? Talk better than this? You can’t control that. It’s useless to worry about things you can’t control.”

Bill chuckles. “Are you shitting me? You are the king of worrying, Holden. You touched a doorknob at the doctor’s office and immediately thought you had the flu."

Holden meets his gaze once more, and Bill feels more whole. “I did catch the flu! You were there.”

“You already had the flu, kiddo. That's why you were at the doctor's office.”

“It wasn’t a coincidence,” he pouts. Holden goes to sit up a little straighter in bed and winces as he moves.

Bill jumps into action, getting to his feet and gently pushing Holden’s shoulders against the pillows. He grabs the remote on the other side of the mattress and gives it to Holden, who uses it to adjust his back. The thick white bandage wrapped around his head hides the newly drilled holes, but, underneath, Bill knows there’s a partially shaved section of hair Holden is worried about because it’s true; Holden worries about everything.

And Bill has no idea why he isn’t worrying about this.

“Why are you so calm about this?” Bill asks. “Isn’t it getting to you? The not knowing?”

Holden shrugs. It’s so nonchalant Bill is convinced he isn’t even talking to his partner anymore. “I almost died.”

“Christ, don’t remind me,” he murmurs.

“But that’s the thing, Bill,” Holden slurs. “I almost died, but I didn’t. I almost died, but I’m here. I have two holes in my skull, and I can still walk and talk, even if I do sound like this. I can do anything and everything that I could before the accident.”

Bill’s heart rate climbs. “Don’t get back into jogging in the mornings yet.”

Holden smiles. “Debbie said the same thing.”

“We’re gonna look out for you now more than ever, kiddo. I hope you know that.”

Holden nods. “I know,” he says, “and thank you.”

“Want some more Jell-O?”

“Yes, please. Cherry, if you don’t mind.”

* * *

Holden is going home tomorrow. It's been five days since his surgery.

Nancy comes to the hospital with Brian in tow.

She brings Bill a clean change of comfortable clothes, and Bill changes in Holden’s private bathroom, while Debbie helps Holden into plaid boxers, a pair of sweatpants, and a grey hooded sweatshirt since, according to the kid, he can pee on his own just fine now. Holden explained that he had a spare key taped to the back of a painting in the hallway of his apartment, so Bill called Nancy, and she quickly agreed to pick him up some clothes for the journey home.

Brian sits in the same red plastic chair Bill's sat in for days, knees pulled to his chin as he watches The Flintstones on the small TV. Holden sprawls out against Debbie, whose back is against Holden’s mound of plushy pillows. She traces her fingers over Holden’s bandages. Bill sits on the edge of Holden’s bed, the kid’s socked feet lying carelessly in his lap; Bill tries not to feel awkward about it. Nancy stands at the foot of the mattress, ready for their discussion.

Of course the discussion is about Holden. Holden, whose speech is becoming dramatically less slurred. Holden, who is going through speech and physical therapy. Holden, who is back to spending more time in his head than out in the real world with the rest of them. Holden’s eyes are fixated on the TV, just like Brian’s. He doesn’t know where the Holden of three days ago went, fresh from surgery and ready to take on the world.

“He needs constant supervision,” Debbie says. Holden wiggles his toes in Bill’s lap but doesn’t offer anything, not even a weak protest.

Nancy nods. “I agree. We can’t have him passing out or falling when no one’s around.”

The ladies gab back and forth about safety precautions, while Bill takes a chance and casually rubs Holden’s ankle very briefly.

Brian would’ve pulled away, but not this kid. Holden smiles shyly, at the TV and not directly Bill, which Bill appreciates.

And it pains him to see Holden this way. The kid was so positive about the outcome of his situation mere days ago, but, in the light of going home, it’s like a switch is flipped. He is more resistant to talking. Debbie tried to get him to read a National Geographic out loud just last night, and Holden refused, taking a Sharpie and writing, 'not right now please,' on a sheet of paper. Debbie persisted and kept trying to reason with him until Bill pulled her into the hallway, explaining that Holden may need some space, or maybe he’s simply tired.

The last few days have been painfully long, after all.

The summer Brian turned five, Bill tried to teach him how to ride a bike. Brian threw fit after fit, especially when Bill touched him, placing his hands on his shoulders to steer him straight. Not surprisingly, Brian fell off the brand new blue bike, badly skinning his elbows and knees. He ran straight for Nancy. Brian always runs straight for Nancy. But Holden… Holden comes to Bill when he has problems, and that makes him feel validated in some small way.

“Are you okay with that, sweetie?” he hears.

Bill snaps out of it. Holden turns his head listlessly so that he’s looking at Nancy and nods.

What did they agree on?

Shit. He should’ve listened.

“What about Debbie?” Holden slurs, so quietly Bill barely hears him.

Fuck. Poor kid.

He did this to his partner. He did it.

“Debbie’s going to come over after class, remember?”

Holden’s breath hitches. Bill notices the tears in his eyes immediately right before Holden pushes them away. Bill takes a chance and rubs Holden’s ankle again.

“We’ll all eat dinner together. She can stay over if she wants. But the point is that someone will be home to watch you 24/7, alright?”

Holden nods, even though Bill can tell he hates every second of this. Bill understands; he would hate it too.

* * *

Later that night, it’s just Bill and Holden. Nancy took Brian to a nearby hotel, and Debbie asked if she could join, to which Nancy agreed. Debbie kissed Holden goodbye and smiled at Bill, who agreed to stay with him. They could watch the game, he had said. Who knows what he meant by ‘the game,’ but who cares? The point is the ladies are getting some much needed sleep, and Brian is tucked safely into bed, clutching onto his stuffed tiger Cookie and making cute little kid noises as he sleeps.

Holden is curled in on himself facing away from Bill, the baby blue hospital blankets pulled to his chin. He looks so small like this, not at all like the 29 year old kid who drives Bill up the Goddamn wall with anecdotes and who drones on and on about brutal murders. Holden hasn’t said a word since Debbie left with Nancy and Brian. Bill knows he’s awake because of course he knows. He sleeps in the same room with Holden more often than he sleeps in the same bed with his own wife. Holden snores, fairly loudly if he’s exhausted.

But Holden isn’t snoring now.

“This is a lot for you, isn’t it?” Bill asks.

He watches Holden’s shoulders immediately tense. The kid sighs.

“What is?”

Bill rolls his eyes. “This. Being looked after constantly.”

Holden is quiet for a few moments. “It’s great. Really. I appreciate you guys taking care of me.”

“You can cut the shit around me, okay? I know this has to drive you nuts.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Debbie told me about your mom,” Bill says. “And she said that you and your father don’t speak. You don’t have any brothers or sisters. It’s been just you for a while, hasn’t it?”

Holden doesn’t roll over to look at him. He stays huddled in on himself, away from the world.

“Yes,” Holden whispers.

“Until Debbie?”

He sees Holden nod. “And you.”

“Kid, this is going to be hard. I know you already anticipate that. But if we get to be too much for you, you need to speak up. No one will know how you feel unless you tell someone.”

Holden shakes his head. “I can’t do that. Not to Debbie. She’s my girlfriend, and she’s worried about me. Not to you and Nancy, not with you guys letting me stay at your house until I recover. It’s… It wouldn’t be fair for me to say anything.”

Bill guesses Holden must be mostly asleep. The slurring is really terrible when Holden is this level of tired.

“Come to me, okay? Not Nancy or Debbie. I see where you’re coming from there. But you can tell me. I’ll find a way to get them to back off for a bit.”

Holden rolls over, slowly and shakily. There are deep purple bags beneath his eyes and a few small bruises dotting his cheeks and chin. He inhales deeply. “You don’t have to do that for me, Bill.”

Bill reaches for Holden’s hand. There’s a part of him that is deeply embarrassed by how much he touches Holden these days, but Holden could’ve died less than a week ago. Holden had drains coming from his skull less than a week ago. Holden could be mute or paraplegic or blind or cognitively impaired, but he isn’t. He’s Holden, and he’s here.

“I’m going to do that for you, kiddo.”

Holden nods and sniffles. “I’m sorry… I-I know I’m being a really big burden right now.”

Bill shakes his head. “No no no. You’re not a burden. I swear,” he whispers. “Just… Just get some sleep, okay? You’ll feel a lot better in the morning.”

“Will you still be here?” Holden asks softly. “When I wake up?”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”


	6. Chapter Six

“Hey, kiddo.”

Bill knocks quietly on the guest bedroom door before entering, a small bowl of water soapy water in hand.

Inside, he finds Holden sitting up against the headboard, a mound of pillows supporting his back and neck. The latest National Geographic in hand, Holden has the magazine pressed close to his face, eyes squinting and fingers trembling slightly as he turns the page. Bill tries not to acknowledge that determined look on his partner’s face. Something else could very well be wrong, but he doesn’t have the strength to accept that just yet. It'd be too much. After all, Holden’s only been home a week.

And what a week it’s been.

That first day, Bill was almost certain Nancy and Debbie were going to kill each other. Debbie was very protective of Holden to the point of irritating Nancy, who was, in her defense, just trying to make the transition easier. Something about Holden wanting to take a shower, but Debbie not wanting him to do it by himself yet; Nancy advocated for Holden’s independence. That caused Debbie to make a remark along the lines of: “Well, it’s _your_ husband’s fault he’s hurt in the first place.”

Nancy was not happy after that. Holden had that deer in headlights look on his face. Bill spoke up. He doesn’t remember what resolved the problem, ultimately, because Holden scrunched his face up in pain and started to shut down, which caused Bill to go into a frenzy, thinking he was stroking out or having an aneurysm. Nancy said that was ridiculous. Debbie said it was plausible. Holden reassured everyone that he was fine and had a headache. He fell asleep quickly and early without so much as saying another word. 

No one believed him.

Debbie watched him like a hawk the rest of the night.

The second day, Holden threw up in bed while only Bill and Brian were home. Debbie was in class, and Nancy was out grocery shopping. Bill offered to do it instead, but Nancy wanted some alone time and insisted Bill wouldn’t get anything they needed. Bill’s cleaned up vomit before, sure, but Holden was so deflated and defeated, utterly embarrassed to his core, afterward. It was something he never wanted to see from his usually confident partner again. It hurt Bill to see how upset he was.

“I’m sorry,” Holden whispered, curled in on himself, bandages stark white against his pale skin.

Bill remembers saying, “it’s okay, kid,” on a loop, but it didn’t stop Holden from being distraught.

On the third day, Holden started speech and occupational therapy in here Fredericksburg. He came home exhausted, slurring his words more than ever and walking with a pronounced limp. He looked worse than after the accident but before the surgery in Bill’s mind. It was scarier to see him like that than it was to find him in the bathtub bleeding from his ear. Holden went straight to bed at two PM and slept all the way until the next day.

The fourth day, Holden woke up feeling better. His speech was still marred, and his words still ran into each other, but it was nowhere near as bad as the night before. The limp was totally gone. Bill was relieved, or as relieved as he could be. But the worry skyrocketed once more when Holden came home in the same state after therapy. He guessed it was the new norm. A shitty, terrible new norm that Holden absolutely did not deserve.

A new norm that was all Bill’s fault.

On the fifth day, Holden had a fever of 102, a runny nose, and a hoarse cough. Debbie took the day off from classes and stayed behind to dote over him, but Holden kept pushing her away, claiming he didn’t need help, that he didn’t need to be looked after, that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, despite the fact that the fever made his speech nearly impossible to understand and his walking wobbly. When Debbie came back after grabbing a forgotten textbook at her apartment to give Holden some space, Holden cried in her arms, slurring apologies and using an entire box of Kleenex. Debbie kissed his forehead and held him tight; Bill came in during that part, and he tried not to feel awkward about it.

The next afternoon, on day six, Holden laid in bed and wouldn’t talk to anyone. Bill asked what was wrong, but Holden sloppily wrote, ‘please stop,’ on a piece of paper and proceeded to plug his ears when Bill protested. Bill felt his cheek with the back of his hand. The kid was on fire. He gave him Tylenol and put a cold compress on his forehead immediately. The kid slept all day and only woke up to blow his nose, eat a small amount of whatever was put in front of him, and - once - go to the bathroom. 

Here they are on day seven.

Holden hasn’t been to therapy in three days because of his illness.

And that magazine is way too close to his face.

“Time to clean your incisions,” Bill says.

Holden doesn’t put the magazine down. Instead, he squints harder and bites his bottom lip.

“What’s this say, Bill?” he slurs nasally.

Bill rounds the corner of the bed closer to Holden. He bends a little to look at the sentence Holden points to.

“Fun fact: Most hummingbirds weigh less than a nickel.”

“Hmm, that is a fun fact,” Holden says sarcastically.

Bill inhales sharply. “Kid?”

“I already know what you’re going to ask,” Holden tells him.

“And what might that be, oh wise one?”

Holden rolls his eyes. “Are you seeing alright, kid?” he imitates, lowering his voice to sound more like Bill’s.

“Well, are you?” Bill asks.

The kid shrugs. “I don’t know. Everything’s really blurry. I’ve been on the same page for 20 minutes.”

He sits on the edge of the mattress, the bowl of soapy water grasped in his hands. “Are you having any trouble comprehending what it’s saying?”

Holden scoffs. “No, Bill. My eggs are not that scrambled. It’s just blurry.”

“We should tell your doctor.”

“Yeah. Probably. Let’s just add it to the list of things that are wrong with me.”

“You’re frustrated, kiddo. Nothing wrong with that.”

“It’s more than that, Bill,” Holden slurs. “My speech… It still sounds like a semi-truck flattened my tongue. I can’t walk very far without needing a break or using a walker in therapy. I’m in therapy, for fuck’s sake. I’m 29 years old and have to learn how to walk and talk properly again. And now I have this, whatever this is, with my eyes. And, on top of that, it’s too much. Debbie’s been driving me up the Goddamn wall. Being here – no offense – is driving me up the wall. I just… I want to go back to my normal life.”

And Bill knows he should’ve done more. He should’ve forced the kid to go to the hospital after the accident. Doctors could’ve caught the bleed early, and they may not be in this situation now. He shouldn’t have let Holden fall asleep with a traumatic brain injury. He shouldn’t have let Holden lead him into believing he was fine because, in light of past experience, Holden will do anything to make Bill believe he’s fine even when he really isn’t.

The guilt eats Bill alive day in and day out, but hearing Holden admit out loud just how tired he is sends the guilt to a whole new level.

Bill thinks about Brian. His baby boy. If Brian were in the same situation, how would Bill handle it? Would he tell him everything’s going to be okay when it might not be? Yes, in a heartbeat. He would do anything in his power to make sure Brian knew no one is going anywhere. No one is giving up on him. No one will leave you ever again. 

But Holden isn’t Brian. This isn’t his six year old with two holes in his skull. This is his 29 year old partner destroyed over an act that is all Bill’s fault.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” is all Bill musters the courage to say.

He can’t make it about him. He can’t do that to Holden when he needs him the most.

Thankfully, the next thing out of Holden is a shrug and, “it’s okay. I’m just tired.”

He doesn’t believe Holden, of course, but he doesn’t exactly want to have this conversation anymore either.

“You ready to change your bandages?”

Holden rolls his eyes. He looks really sleepy. “Sure. Sounds like a blast.”

Sarcasm. A defense mechanism. Likely the only one Holden has left.

It may be odd to say, but Bill’s glad Holden’s personality didn’t vanish after the accident and brain surgery. The kid’s still a little shit at times.

Bill carefully unravels the thick bandage around Holden’s skull. Beneath it, his hair is glued to his head, flat in every way imaginable. The two drill holes are pink and closed and not at all infected, just as they should be. The last thing any of them would want is for Holden’s wounds to be infected. The small strip of hair above his right ear that was shaved is already starting to grow back. That should make Holden a bit happier at least.

Gently, Bill dips a soft cloth in the soapy water and dabs it over the incisions, wiping a very thin layer of crust away. This is only supposed to be done every two days to give the wounds a chance to dry to promote healing. They’re only allowed to use soap and water, not alcohol or hydrogen peroxide, which could harm the tissue and slow the healing process.

After he thoroughly cleans the area, he lets the incisions air dry. Debbie tried blotting it dry with a towel the very first time anyone besides a nurse changed his dressing, and it did not end well, so now they let it dry on its own. Holden stares at the wall, uninterested and bored but still exhausted. Bill can’t say that he blames him. He sets the bowl of soapy water aside.

“You doing okay?” Bill asks to get Holden to talk again; sometimes, he’s acutely afraid Holden will stop speaking. “Any pain?”

Holden nods, filtering back into reality. “Some.”

“I’ll give you a painkiller after this.”

“Okay,” Holden whispers.

After the incisions are dry, Bill cautiously re-wraps Holden’s head in a thick bandage, once again hiding his mini-quiff that he’s so meticulous about from the world.

Bill grabs the bottle of painkillers and glass of water from the bedside table. He gives a single pill and the water to Holden, who downs it greedily.

“Pillows,” Holden says suddenly, eyes heavy. “Too many.”

His words are almost impossible to understand.

_He’s just tired. He always sounds better when he’s wide awake._

Bill gets the message and helps Holden sit up so he can shuck three or four pillows out from behind him. He has the kid lay down completely, and Holden instantly curls into a loose ball on his side. Bill can’t help but notice how small he is, how he uses this last line of defense to protect himself against the world. Bill wonders how much of Holden’s daily habits coincide with his childhood, which he’s beginning to suspect wasn’t all that pleasant, much like his own.

“’ill?” the kid manages.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Read?” Holden asks. It’s hardly a question, but the inflection is there.

Bill’s eyebrows furrow. “Read what?”

“Geographic,” he slurs.

“You want me to read the National Geographic to you?”

The kid nods.

Without worrying, for once, Bill grabs the latest National Geographic from the other side of the mattress. He settles against the headboard, trying to make himself comfortable. He doubts the kid will be awake for very long, but Holden can surprise him sometimes, head injury or not. Bill opens the magazine to a random page.

“The bones and muscles of the wing are also highly specialized. The main bone, the humerus, similar to the upper arm of a mammal, is hollow instead of solid. It also connects to the bird’s air sac system, which, in turn, connects to its lungs. The powerful flight muscles of the shoulder attach to the keel, a special ridge of the bone that runs down the center of the wide sternum. The tail feathers are used for steering.”

There’s a sudden shift on the mattress. Holden’s head is on his thigh.

Bill gulps and ignores it. He keeps reading.

“Birds have a unique digestive system that allows them to eat when they can – usually on the fly – and digest later. They use their beaks to grab and swallow food. Even the way the bird reproduces is related to flight. Instead of carrying the extra weight of developing young inside their bodies, they lay eggs and incubate them in rest.”

Bill looks down at lap. He lets out a sigh when he notices Holden’s eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted and breathing deeply.

He doesn’t know how to feel about this. Doesn’t know if it’s appropriate.

But Holden is warm against his thigh, and Bill is tired too.

He lets his worries drift away.


	7. Chapter Seven

Bill comes to slowly.

It’s dark. He can’t see his hand in front of his face. He isn’t sure where he is because this definitely isn’t his bed. No, his bed is squishier, bouncier, while this is softer, newer. He knows he isn’t on the couch; that green thing is so indented with the asses of his family that it is more than familiar. Bill’s taken many naps on that couch. Of course, he isn’t in his recliner since this doesn’t feel like a recliner, and he isn’t, well, reclined.

He reaches out blindly until he finds a switch of sorts. He clicks it, and the room fills with bright, artificial light. Bill squints.

Fuck. Fucking shit.

Holden.

The kid is curled up in Bill’s lap, cheek resting against his thigh. He smacks his lips and scratches his nose, but he makes no additional efforts in moving. Bill inhales sharply, trying to will his mind not to turn this into a big deal. It’s inappropriate. Holden is his work partner and friend, sure, but this level of intimacy is something that is hard to come by with his wife. It’s even stranger coming from Bill’s very own son. In the three years Brian has been in his life, the small child has never once tried to lay in Bill’s lap; here, Holden does it like it means nothing, as if he can just melt against Bill, and everything will be okay.

Part of it – this – makes him feel good. Noticed. Appreciated… Wanted.

The other part of it – this – makes him feel guilty. Awkward. Unsure.

But Holden’s been through so much recently directly at the hands of Bill. Who really cares if the kid falls asleep in his lap? Who really cares that Holden, drugged up and sick and exhausted, asked Bill to read a National Geographic to him? Bill doesn’t. Bill can’t pick and choose his battles, not with this kid. Not anymore. He’d give Holden the world if he could, just to make the intense culpability go the fuck away. He’d especially give whatever he could to assure Holden can go back to work completely well, able to speak without slurring his words and to walk for long distances and see clearly, perfectly mimicking how he used to be.

He’s afraid nothing will ever be how it was before.

Because he may have crippled the kid for life.

Holden couldn’t even read the magazine on his own. Everything was too blurry.

Christ. He has to stop. Holden is passed out, right here. Bill call feel him breathing. He’s fine. He’s fine.

The kid will get more therapy and be good as new. Even if Holden has a slight lisp or slurs his words or can’t move as fast or wears glasses because he can’t see as well as he did before, Bill will make sure he is taken care of. Bill will make sure that, no matter what at all costs, the kid returns to the job he loves. No one is going to push Holden to the side because of this injury, not when it’s Bill’s fault he ended up like this in the first place.

Holden sniffles.

Bill snaps back into reality.

He doesn’t want to wake the kid up, but Holden can’t sleep like this, curled up on his lap instead of into his pillows. He’ll get a crick in his neck or back or both, and Bill can’t handle hurting him anymore than he already has. Plus, Holden has to be in top shape for therapy tomorrow. Debbie’s likely going to make him go back no matter how he feels, which is good. It’s been three days without it, and Holden’s injuries aren’t going to get better without additional help.

Bill carefully moves Holden and wiggles himself out from under him. Holden smacks his lips again and huddles into a ball on his side facing the wall. Bill breathes out a sigh of relief. He pulls the comforter up to the kid’s shoulders, clicks off the bedside lamp, and tiptoes out of the room.

The moment he comes into the living room, Debbie speaks up.

“Is he okay?” She sounds concerned.

Bill yawns. Debbie is at the kitchen table with a pile of books and papers in front of her. Nancy sits across from her knitting a sweater.

“He’s fine. Still out like a light.”

“You two were cute,” Nancy says with a slight smile.

Debbie nods. “I took a picture.”

Bill’s eyes widen. “You did not.”

“She did,” Nancy teases.

Debbie hands over the Polaroid of Bill and Holden asleep in the guest bedroom, Bill’s head tipped back and mouth open, while Holden is sprawled across Bill’s lap. Bill’s cheeks heat up, and he gives the picture back without taking a second glance. He still doesn’t know how to feel about anything, much less how to feel about his partner falling asleep on him.

“He’s having trouble seeing,” Bill informs. “I think we need to set up an appointment with an ophthalmologist.”

Debbie looks at him. “Did he tell you that?”

“He said he was stuck on the same page trying to make out what it said for 20 minutes… He asked me to read a sentence for him when I went to change his dressing.”

Debbie lets out a long sigh. She puts her head in her hands. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Poor Holden,” Nancy breathes out. “Will he ever get a break?”

Bill shies away from the ladies, shoving his hands in his pockets. He stares at the carpet.

“We should set it up as soon as possible,” Debbie says. “Can’t have him going to therapy without being able to see.”

Bill’s heart near his toes, he rubs the back of his neck and nods.

* * *

After two very long days of blurry vision headaches, the day of Holden’s eye appointment arrives.

Debbie has two midterms today, and Nancy is with her mother, who broke her hip last night, in Ohio with Brian, which just leaves Bill. He doesn’t mind, though. He took a sick day and spent the early part of the morning with Holden, the two of them eating Cheerios and watching the news in peace. Holden even got permission to relax in Bill’s recliner.

Truth be told, Bill wouldn’t have told him he couldn’t sit there, but it was fun watching Holden squirm as he asked.

Holden is bundled up tightly and safely beside him in the car, rubbing at his eyes tiredly as Bill pulls into the parking lot. He gets out and goes around to the other side of the vehicle, opening Holden’s door for him. The kid still can’t walk very far without some sort of assistance, and he has a hard time getting in and out because of all the bending. Bill does most of the work for him, positioning his hand behind the kid’s back as the kid wraps his arms around Bill’s neck. Once Holden is standing, Bill keeps a steady hand on the small of his back the whole time.

Bill helps Holden sit down once they’re inside, warming up from the freezing weather. He assists Holden, who is still incredibly weak, with taking off his coat and draping it over his lap, revealing a navy sweater with the neck of the white undershirt sticking out. Bill grabs the forms and sits down beside the kid. He almost hands them to Holden, but the moment he sees Holden squinting heavily, Bill takes matters into his own hands.

“Got your insurance card?” Bill asks.

The kid looks at him blearily before he nods. He lifts himself up a bit and pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. Holden hands him the whole thing, not even bothering sifting through to find the insurance. Luckily, they share the same job and have the same insurance provided through the Bureau. Bill finds the card quickly, along with some cash, a punch card to a local sub shop, and Holden’s driver’s license.

Bill chuckles when he sees the picture on the license. “You look like you’re 12.”

Holden rolls his eyes. “Ha ha.”

“Your birthday’s 3-26-50, right?”

Another eye roll. “That’s what my license and insurance card says.”

Bill almost drops the pen. “Are you okay, Holden?”

“God, I wish people would stop asking me that. I’m fine. Great. Fantastic.”

“We only ask because we care,” Bill points out without glancing in the kid’s direction. “What’s your middle name?”

Holden sighs loudly. “Jacob.”

“Holden Jacob Ford,” Bill says out loud. “Sounds…”

“Pretentious?”

Bill nods. “Very pretentious.”

“Yeah, well, blame my father for that. My mom wanted to name me Jonathan.”

Bill’s eyebrows furrow. “Jonathan?”

“Mhmm. Father went the douchey route with Holden.”

“For what it’s worth, I think Holden suits you,” he says teasingly.

Holden gives him a sideways glance. Good. The kid’s still here, just buried beneath his irritation and snarky responses. “Glad you think so. Not like I had much of a choice, though.”

“At least your middle name isn’t Herbert.”

… Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

“Your middle name is Herbert?”

Bill nods.

The kid chuckles. The chuckle turns into a laugh. A real, genuine laugh. It’s the first time he’s seen Holden even begin to seem happy. “I… like it.”

“Uh huh. Laugh it up, kiddo.”

Bill gets up to give Holden’s information to the lady at the front desk. He settles back down beside Holden and grabs a magazine, something about cars and trucks. He doesn’t care about any of it and thumbs through the pages quickly. Bill is near the end when he feels something on his shoulder.

It’s Holden.

Holden’s head is on his shoulder.

The kid’s eyes are closed, his lips parted slightly. He isn’t asleep, not yet at least, and he made the conscious decision to put his head on Bill’s shoulder.

Bill thinks about pushing him away because this is becoming too much… But he can’t. Not with the kid sick and hurting and at a doctor’s appointment.

This is all his fault anyway.

Who is he to blame Holden for the way he wants his comfort?

It’s like ordering a cheeseburger. You pick and choose what you want on it. No one judges if you don’t want onions or pickles, and Bill can’t judge Holden for what he wants.

That doesn’t mean Bill can’t be unsure of it, though.

Eventually, Holden’s name is called, and he is half asleep as Bill practically manhandles him into the examination room. Bill explains the brain bleed and major surgery to the doctor, who clicks his tongue at the information. He also explains that he’d like to stay for the exam just in case, to which the doctor makes no comment. Holden smiles at him though, and it seems like he’s okay with it. Bill sits in a chair beside the kid, who reads letters off a chart with squinting eyes.

The gets almost every single one of them wrong. The kid tells the doctor he only got the letter ‘B’ right ‘because of the humps.’

“And you said you didn’t need glasses before the accident?”

Holden shakes his head. “I’ve always had really good vision.”

“You’re positive about this?” the doctor asks. “From your tests, I’d say your eyes have been strained for years. The accident could’ve been the trigger to make them worse, but the fact remains your vision is not ‘really good,’ as you say it was.”

Holden’s eyebrows furrow. Bill shakes his head. Of course.

“You need glasses, Agent Ford,” the doctor says. “Whether it’s from the accident or not, I can’t officially tell you, but I can tell you that you have two diopters of farsightedness in your left eye and three in your right, as well as an astigmatism in both eyes.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bill breathes. “That sounds bad.”

“Well, it’s not particularly great, but it’s more than manageable with glasses,” the doctor informs.

Holden scowls the rest of the appointment, which, granted, isn’t very long. He looks huffy and irritable as he gets fitted for his new glasses. They’ll be available to pick up in five or six days. Until then, he guesses Holden is just going to walk around with diopters of farsightedness, whatever the hell that means, in both eyes.

Bill keeps Holden steady on the way back to the car. The kid shivers against him in the bitter wind. He sneezes the moment Bill buckles him in, right in Bill’s face.

“Sorry,” Holden sniffles. “Didn’t feel that one coming.”

Bill wipes the snot spray from his cheek. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo.”

The ride home is mostly silent, save for a few more of Holden’s post-illness sneezes and coughs. The kid looks miserable, arms crossed over his chest as he stares out the window at the world passing by.

“Glasses aren’t that bad,” Bill says suddenly, surprising himself. “I wear reading glasses. Sure, they can be a little irritating sometimes, but that’s mostly when I can’t find them.”

Holden rolls his eyes. “These aren’t reading glasses, Bill.”

Bill nods. “I know that, kiddo. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Holden warbles out. He sounds strange, like he’s on the verge of crying or breaking down or screaming.

Bill cautiously looks beside him before returning his eyes to the road; he cannot cause another car accident, not with the kid in here. Holden’s eyes are red, tears swelling and threatening to spill. He breathes in deeply, in a very controlled manner, which Holden tends to do if he’s feeling his emotions very strongly.

“I’m sorry about all of this, Holden. I wish I had gotten you –”

Holden cuts him off. “Stop! Just stop, Bill! There’s nothing you can do now to take it back.”

Bill frowns. “I know that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t feel guilty.”

“Yeah?” Holden asks harshly. “Well, stop feeling guilty. I don’t need your guilt. I know you feel bad. Ever since the accident, you’ve been making me feel bad because you feel bad, and it’s the vicious cycle, and I constantly feel like I’m spinning out. I just… I need a friend, Bill. I don’t want you to feel like this for the rest of your life.”

A friend?

A friend.

It clicks immediately. He has to stop feeling so guilty for the sake of Holden. Even if he doesn’t actually feel great about the situation they’re in, he knows now that he’s driving Holden crazy. The kid doesn’t deserve that, not with all the shit he already has to handle. If anything, Bill should be able to reign the culpability in around the kid and not mention it.

Bill nods. “You need a friend, kiddo? I can do that.”

He can feel Holden’s skepticism from here. “I didn’t mean to be rude or h–”

“Kiddo,” Bill says. “It’s okay. I understand what you meant. I need to make things better for you, not worse.”

He looks at Holden once more. The kid looks confused, but the pinched facial expression is no longer there. He watches the kid nod slowly from the corner of his eye.

“Thank you, Bill. For everything.”

Bill doesn’t feel like he has absolutely anything for Holden to thank him for. Thank you for causing a brain bleed? Thank you for the surgery? Thank you for the scars? Thank you for the holes in your skull? Thank you for the speech and physical therapy? Thank you for the glasses? Thank you for not accidentally killing me?

But he can’t say any of that to Holden.

Holden’s right. He needs a friend, and Bill has to be there for him.

“You’re welcome, kiddo.”

He’s hoping, one day, he can forgive himself just by being Holden’s friend.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I saw Jonathan Groff in person on the 15th during Little Shop, and I am still dying. The show was amazing! The cast had so much fun while performing. It was such a unique and wonderful experience to watch one of my favorite human beings do something he loves. I couldn't even finish writing this chapter because I was so excited. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kind words and feedback! I hope you enjoy the last chapter!

A month passes.

The kid gets his glasses and grows used to wearing them. He has two pairs of thin wire-framed lenses, one for everyday use and one for emergencies. Bill keeps the spares with him at all times, stashed in the glovebox or the pocket of his slacks or above the fridge at home. The first couple weeks, Holden would forget to put them on when he got out of bed, so Bill, Debbie, Nancy, and even once Brian were on duty to remind him. Now, though, Holden wears them without even thinking. The glasses suit his bookish, nerdy, socially awkward nature well. Bill has a hard time remembering what his partner looked like before them because they’re just so very Holden.

Therapy goes well. The kid has bad days, of course, where he refuses to go, fed up with the constant scrutiny of what should be automatic for him, like walking and talking. The kid has days where he doesn’t speak, afraid of his own voice, the way his tongue drags against his teeth for too long, how he sounds like he sludged his words through a thick coating of mud. When these days occur, Bill finds it best to leave him be and let him talk when he wants to, but Debbie tends to push a little harder. Lately, it’s been working, and Holden responds to the extra shove in the right direction. Bill wonders if he’s been going about it the wrong way this whole time.

Before, Holden had to be helped up with either a gait belt during therapy or wrapping his arms around someone’s neck to hoist himself into a standing position. Now, Holden gets up and down easier. Even with therapy, he is still weak after the brain injury and surgery, so Bill helps whenever he sees Holden struggling. Usually, he has a harder time near the end of the day, exhausted from therapy and taking his afternoon walk around the block. Bill is on standby in the afternoons because the kid’s taken a tumble more than once; two weeks ago, the kid fell and busted his forehead on the corner of the dining room table. He needed seven stitches, and Bill felt like he had an aneurysm. That night broke him. He vowed to watch Holden like a hawk, even if it was from a careful distance to avoid irritating the kid. 

February melts into March, each day passing quicker than the last. Holden gets stronger and more optimistic as a whole. The setbacks, like the fall or not speaking for an entire day, are brutal and harsh, but Bill doesn’t expect Holden to make it through this unscathed. It’s part of the reason why Bill absolutely will not let Holden return to his apartment, nor stay at Debbie’s. It’s nothing against Debbie; she’s just at school often. Nancy is here almost constantly, and Bill’s taken a lot of time off since Holden got hurt. Holden can’t afford to be on his own just yet. Bill doesn’t even want to think about how much progress he would lose being by himself. 

Today, on this windy mid-March day, Bill is half-asleep in the waiting room of the kid’s speech therapy office. He took another sick day. Shephard understands and is lenient with Bill given the circumstances. Their project is still very new, and Road School was, luckily, shifted to someone else in the meantime. Bill’s built this relationship with Shephard over twenty years. Holden getting hurt while they were working sent their boss over the edge. He told Holden, shortly and curtly, to take as much time as he needed. Not that it really matters. Holden has a lot to prove mentally and physically before he can return to work. 

Bill knows this.

He knows the kid will have to fight for everything now, likely for a long time.

But Bill also knows he won’t let Holden fail. He won’t let Holden feel less than who he is.

He knows the kid will have to fight for everything now, likely for a long period of time.

And he will do anything – absolutely anything – to assure his transition back into work is easy.

Bill blinks when he hears the door open. Holden emerges. He shakes his therapist’s hand before walking over to Bill. After weeks of physical therapy, the limp is gone. The bandages long gone, the shaved part of his hair grew back too, almost completely covering the scars from the drill holes. Debbie cut the kid’s hair last night so it would look more natural and less like he had emergency brain surgery only a month ago. 

“How’d it go?” Bill asks as he stands. 

“Same as always. She thinks my timing is getting better though and sounds less forced.”

“That’s great,” Bill says. “But I’m guessing you don’t think so?”

Holden shrugs. “I dunno. I’m not sure. It’s harder to tell when it’s your own voice.”

“It’s definitely getting better. I was really impressed when you read In Cold Blood to Debbie yesterday. I could tell the therapy was working.”

Holden gives him a small smile. He puts his rain jacket on and flips the hood as they walk to the car. This time, Bill walks beside him instead of being him.

Bill’s working harder at being Holden’s friend. Instead of displacing the guilt of the accident onto the kid, Bill tries to encourage and support him. He doesn’t mention the crash directly, and he thinks that helps a lot. It’s not as if Holden doesn’t know they were in a car accident that caused his brain injury. He’s fully aware and coherent, and Bill bringing it up everyday must’ve made it hard for him to try to move forward. Since the change in his conduct, Holden has opened up a bit more to him about how he’s feeling, whereas before he was scared to mention it since Bill stated over and over again just how guilty he felt.

Honestly, it’s easier being Holden’s friend than he realized.

Bill watches Holden get into the car with ease. He has physical therapy tomorrow, but sometimes he questions if the kid still needs it. During moments like these, it’s hard look back a month ago and remember where the kid started. He had drills in his skull and tubes sticking out of his head, for Christ’s sake. His words were so slurred Bill had a hard time understanding what he said. But now the kid’s hard work during his recovery is paying off, and it thrills Bill to see how much progress he’s making daily. Maybe soon, Holden can return to work. On light duty, of course.

“How about we get some pizza?” Bill asks. He turns his windshield wipers on.

From beside him, Holden nods. “Can we get Adriano’s?” 

“Sure, kid. We can get whatever you want.”

Adriano’s is thirty minutes out of the way from home, but the kid deserves a treat. More than anything, though, he deserves to live his life normally. If this were before the accident, Bill knows he wouldn’t have taken the kid to get pizza this far from their destination, but things are so much different these days. Bill looks forward to seeing Holden each morning, not just because he worried the entire night about how the crash affected him, but because he genuinely enjoys Holden’s company. They spend quite a bit of their time together in comfortable silence, but it feels more personal than an actual conversation sometimes.

They pull into the parking lot. Holden gets out wordlessly, as if it’s no big deal.

Look at how well this kid is doing now.

Bill orders them a large half meat lover’s and half supreme veggie because he swears Holden is a goat. 

Holden is too scared of his voice to order anything on his own just yet, but that’s okay.

The kid puts water in his cup, even though Bill specifically ordered two sodas. Holden sits and taps his fingers on the table while Bill waits for the pizza. When the pizza finally comes out, piping hot and freshly cut, he sees Holden’s eyes light up. The kid doesn’t usually have much of an appetite, which rings true from even before everything happened, but Adriano’s is his favorite pizza place, and he talks about the supreme veggie pie more often than Bill prefers.

“Mmm. This is so good,” Holden moans, mouthful of bleh vegetables.

Bill doesn’t understand how the kid eats what he eats, but it’s nice to see Holden enjoying himself.

“I don’t want to see your food, Holden,” Bill teases lightly.

Holden rolls his eyes.

The kid devours two slices before he pushes his plate away. He downs the rest of his water. Bill keeps munching on his third slice.

“Want a refill?”

The kid nods. Bill goes to grab his cup, but Holden stops him. “I can do it,” he says.

Last month, Holden couldn’t walk without help, and his words were almost incomprehensible. 

Today, he gets his water refill on his own, just like he would before.

“Bill?” Holden asks carefully once he sits back down. The kid’s facial expression is slightly pinched. He’s worried about something.

Bill wipes his hands off with a napkin. “Yeah, kiddo?”

The kid sighs. He runs his fingers through his hair, stopping when he feels the surgery bumps on his skull. “Do you think I’m still going to be able to work?”

“Shephard said you can come back once you’re better.”

Holden nods. “I know. I know he said that, but… Shephard doesn’t like me very much. What if he just said that to get me to shut up?”

“I don’t think Shephard actively dislikes you, Holden… I think you challenge him, and that’s something he isn’t used to. But I don’t think he would lie about something like that. I’ve known him for over twenty years, and he usually means what he says.”

Holden’s eyebrows furrow. “’He usually means what he says,’” Holden repeats. “That’s it. I’m toast.”

The kid rocks back and forth slightly in his seat. It’s so slight that it’s almost imperceptible to the naked eye, but Bill knows Holden. He can see it. The kid does this when he’s really nervous or anxious, which is a lot. Bill doesn’t know where his anxiety comes from because he’s normally so confident in his work, but Holden out of work is not the same kid Bill knows. Holden at work is buttoned up and challenges authority; Holden out of work is quiet and soft-spoken.

“Hey,” Bill says gently. “Look at me.”

The kid does.

“Please don’t spiral over this. Don’t you see how much progress you’re making? It’s only been a month, and you’re almost back to 100%.”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter,” the kid says quickly, swallowing thickly. 

“Yes, it does, kiddo. It definitely matters. Your speech is so good now I can hardly tell you slurred every single word. And you’re walking is basically back to normal. You’re still a little weak, but that will go away with more time to heal and therapy. You’re doing everything right, kid. Shephard is going to see that. He’s going to see how strong you are and how willing you are to come back to work.”

“All he’s going to see is the accident.”

Bill shakes his head. “You’re unstoppable, Holden. I see that fire inside you. You’re going to beat this, okay? You’re going to go back to work soon, and none of this will be an issue. It’ll be in the past.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“I’ll make sure you do,” Bill says. “I’m going to help you through this. If Shephard gives you any grief, he’ll have to deal with me.”

Holden sits up straighter. 

“Really?” Holden asks gingerly.

Bill nods. “No one is going to hold you back, kiddo. No one.”

Holden smiles, small and guarded and slightly embarrassed, but still a smile nonetheless. 

“Thanks, Bill.”


End file.
